


Elf in the Streets, Krampus Between the Sheets

by Peckishdragon



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Child Murder, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Ghosts, Holiday Horror; Advent fic, Kid Fic, M/M, Meet-Cute, Podcast, Serial Killers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:14:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21926536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Peckishdragon/pseuds/Peckishdragon
Summary: John Watson is a single father living in a seriously haunted cottage in Wales. Sherlock Holmes is the creator of the Podcast 'the Science of Deduction' which debunks most paranormal experiences as common occurrences.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 30
Kudos: 111





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WatsonWench](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WatsonWench/gifts).



> This is an advent fic that is getting posted just a bit late! It is a multi chapter story, but it will all be posted by the end of Christmas Day. (CST) 
> 
> A few things, it's a Holiday Horror story, so expect some not so good bits, but please know that there is no major character death. There is harm to children, but it is in the past and is not described in great detail. 
> 
> The major setting is in Wales, and as I have never been there, please excuse any inaccuracies. I had to rely on Google and as we all know, it's not always the most reliable. NO DISRESPECT was meant. 
> 
> This was a Christmas gift for WatsonWench, and I hope they enjoy!

John pushed himself to finish another lap in the cold, competition style swimming pool. The cold water was not ideal for his shoulder, and the old war wound that still acted up on occasion ached liked a bitch. However the days of warm pools and hot saunas were over. Those were fancy gyms in London. Not the YMCA, a good hour drive from his new/old home in bumfuck Wales. Okay to be fair, The Mumbles was not bumfuck. It was a lovely little township that was actually pretty bustling. Cosmopolitan even, in the right light. It was just that John had loved London, and in comparison every other place seemed to dim. 

Which made his life pretty fucking funny. 

After he had been medically discharged from the army, John had kicked around London for a bit, staying in a horrid little bed-share and moping. He had met Mary in a coffeeshop, and it had seemed like a glorious connection. Not even a year later they had been married and expecting a baby. They had gone on a driving holiday around Wales when Mary was about five months along, and she had fallen head over heels in love with the Mumbles. 

John had fallen ass over tea kettle in debt trying to finance the cottage she had wanted their child raised in. 

Which is why it was so god damn funny that five years later, he was raising their daughter Rosie in the Mumbles, while Mary had ran back to London, within a year of their daughter's birth. It had been the right thing for Mary. Hell it had been the right thing for their tiny family. 

John wasn't bitter. Much. 

He had seen how having Rosie had affected Mary. Had watched the woman he had thought he loved slowly losing herself to madness. It had been a slow, deceptive spiral. Until one frigid night in February he had found Rosie strapped in her car seat, bawling, her face red raw with tears and snot.

Mary had been inside the cottage, cheeks rosy with warmth from the fire, a glass of red wine in her shaking hand. She had been maniac with energy. The most energy he had seen her with in weeks. The cottage looked like a tornado had blown threw it.

John had stood there, Rosie snuggled into his coat for warmth, her cold face pressed into throat as she keened tunelessly. He hadn't been sure what to say, to think. He was a god damn doctor, he should have seen the effects of postpartum depression. He was a fucking soldier, he should have seen the effects of PTSD. He had no excuse. 

Mary had screamed at him, blood red wine slopping out of the tea mug. John, to this day, could not recall what she had accused him of, the vile words that had spewed from her once loving mouth. The only thought running on repeat through his head, had been that Rosie could have died. Would have died if he had been any later that evening. He had arrived home from work two hours early. He had been working as a locum GP, for a small practice. If he had taken one more case of strep throat, his baby would have died. 

John wanted to shake his wife. To make her see. 

But the look in her eyes told him the truth. She couldn't see. Mary had left that night, back to London. John had not argued with her. Hell, he had helped her pack, though he had refused to put Rosie down. 

Now, John couldn't help but wonder if that downward spiral had been all Mary. Or if the house had something to do with it. 

Not long after she had left, it had started. Small things that had left John scratching his head; confused and then terrified and bewildered the longer it had continued. His keys had disappeared from the bowl that had sat by the door since they had moved in. The hand carved, wooden bowl he put his god damn keys in every time he came in the cottage. He would search high and low for them, only to find them in the bowl an hour into looking. It had been enough for him to start questioning his sanity. 

It had started insidiously slow. He hadn't even questioned it really. Not for years. 

By then it wasn't just his keys. It was anything and everything. On night he had been on the phone to an old friend in London. He had put Rosie down for the night and was in the kitchen trying to avoid looking at his savings account, by chatting with Mike Stamford. He had just made himself a steaming mug of Earl Grey. He had turned to open the fridge for a bit of cream, when he had turned around the mug was gone. Disappeared right off the butcher block. 

Across the room, his favorite mug shattered on the floor. Hot tea splattering across the old, rough hewed planks of hardwood. Mike had stopped his chattering to listen to John spew obscenities in the sudden hush of the house. 

“Jesus fuck mate,” Mike had exclaimed “what crawled out of your ass?” 

“I think my fucking house is haunted,” John muttered angrily. “The weirdest shit has been happening.” 

Mike was the type of friend to listen and not judge. Or if he did judge, he didn't do it out loud. John appreciated him more than ever. He was also the bloke who had turned him onto Sherlock Holmes, Ghost Debunker extraordinaire. After the night of the tea debacle, John had gone into research mode. Like he hadn't done since medical school. Books and websites about ghost and hauntings. And a scary as fuck foray into demons and demonic possession. He had been on a research spiral of doom. Wikipedia was only the tip of the iceberg. 

A week of sleepless nights later, Mike had called him. “Mate, you need to listen to this podcast.” 

“I don't have time,” John had argued as he sat at the kitchen table, a book by one or both of the Warrens in front of him. 

“It's called the Science of Deduction,” Mike had continued blithely. “This bloke talks about ghost and demons, and more often than naught debunks people's hauntings.” 

“I don't need a doubter,” John had snapped tiredly. “I need somebody to figure out what's going on with my house.” 

“Mate, just listen to one episode.” Mike had soothed, in that annoying way.

Which is how John found himself unable to exit his car one rainy day in late November. He had dropped Rosie off at school, his sweet little girl chattering happily about her imaginary friend. Whatever went on in the cottage did not seem to affect Rosie. She was a cheerful little girl, who was a bit introverted. As he waved goodbye to her at the school drop off lane, he hit play on the first episode of an impressively lengthy catalog of podcasts. He was prepared to hate it. 

John was sucked in immediately. He tried to be a bit skeptical, but within the first thirty seconds he was hooked. A buttery baritone voice, melodic in it's disdain for stupidity, narrated a ghost story. When the listener was ready to scream in anticipation, sure that this was a real paranormal encounter, Sherlock Holmes in great scientific detail tore it apart. Dissecting the hows and whys methodically. His posh voice doing nothing to curb his bloodthirsty enthusiasm for solving the mystery. 

“Bloody fucking brilliant,” John grinned as he hit play on the next episode. He was enjoying the acerbic way Sherlock laid out his evidence. 

And that is how he found himself spending his day. Unable to exit his car, while he sat in the pouring rain listening to a catalog of episodes, the next better than the last.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock was curled up tightly on his loveseat, wrapped in his dark blue silk dressing gown as he sulked. Everything was dull. It was unbearable. Everybody who had written in to him about ghost stories were idiots. The lot of them could see, but not one of them observed. It was beyond frustrating. The idiot who lived on the moors in a tiny game keeper's lodge, with a ghostly creak that came in threes, had an obvious problem with creaky pipes and expanding floorboards. The banshee in Sussex was a bloody barn owl, not some ill omen of death. The ghost baby in Ireland had been briefly interesting, until Sherlock had deduced it was the husband trying to drive his wife insane via a clever ploy. Sherlock sat up abruptly and threw a pillow at the vertigo inducing wallpaper Mrs Hudson thought fitting for his flat. 

Give him a good malevolent haunting. A bloody demonic possession. Anything to break the monotony of London in December. Every time it spit the slightest bit of snowy drizzle the city went into panic mode. Sherlock enjoyed the chaos, but abhorred the stupidity of people. 

Gregory Lestrade stood in the door, watching Sherlock warily before speaking, “Sherlock are we recording today or what?” 

Sherlock sneered at his podcast producer, “have you found something of interest for me? No, then piss off.” 

Lestrade didn't let Sherlock's tone put him off his lovely mood. “You could do some leg work of your own mate. You are turning into Mycroft at this rate.” 

He tromped down the stairs and past Mrs Hudson's flat, before Sherlock enraged reply could come. It was rare that he landed a zinger on the cagey demon detective debunker. 

“Yoo-hoo, mail darling!” Came Mrs Hudson's fluttering voice from downstairs. “Letters from all your friends!”

“I don't have friends,” Sherlock shouted back petulantly. “They are idiots. All of them.” 

Mrs Hudson hummed noncommittally, used to Sherlock's snits. She climbed the stairs wondering if she should decorate for the upcoming holidays. It was always lovely having a bit of festive color and greenery. She had to resist flicking through the mail in her hands. All of them held such interesting stories, and she adored when Sherlock told them and solved them. 

That's how she had met the man after all. Mrs Hudson had married a very bad man in her youth. She had gotten out relatively unscathed, except for a healthy distrust of attractive, charming men with dark eyes and a penchant for serial killing. The night he had been executed in the great state of Florida, she had drank a magnum of champagne in celebration. The next day weird things had begun to happen at 221 Baker Street.

Martha Hudson had been baffled at first at the strange goings on, and then progressively more scared. When she had been shoved down the stairs by an invisible force after cleaning the empty flat upstairs, she had finally gotten mad. She was not going to be run out of her home by some bully. She refused to put up with it from an abusive husband and she would be damned if some other sort of diabolical bullshit was going to drive her insane. 

Mrs Hudson didn't bother knocking on Sherlock's door. She just pushed it open, not surprised to see him curled up on the sofa. She rather adored this spoiled man-child with all of his quirks. She tossed the mail on the small table next to the couch, and wandered off to make a pot of tea. She was not his housekeeper, but she was his friend. And a good friend did what they could to help drag one out of a funk. Even if that meant a good kick in the rear. 

Sherlock had helped her at her lowest point. Martha didn't think anybody would ever believe her when she had finally worked up the nerve to share her story, and the crazy things happening at 221 Baker Street. She finally had reason to use that fancy laptop her niece had sent her for something other than solitaire. She had started off slow. Wikipedia articles on ghosts and poltergeist. A site called Creepypasta had terrified her away from the computer for a few days. The more confident she had become with trolling the internet for answers, the deeper she began to look. That is where she found Sherlock. With a rather pretentious blog with a lot of big words, but underneath a man with a big heart who wanted to help people get to the bottom of their hauntings. 

Martha had dithered a few days before working up the nerve to send off a rather rushed email, she had pecked and hunted two fingered on the lap top keyboard. Once she had started to explain what was going on at 221 she couldn't stop. It had all come pouring out in a cathartic rush, like a pus filled boil finally expressed. She had shut the laptop down that night, wondering if she would ever get a response from the man. Martha had felt better just getting it off her chest to somebody faceless. She knew if she had shared the stories with anybody else, Mrs Turner for instance, they would never believe her. 

Mrs Hudson had not had to wait long for a response. The next morning Sherlock Holmes had shown up at 221 Baker Street. Martha had opened the door, still dressed in her dressing gown, ready to blister whoever it was disturbing her sleep. What she found on her stoop was a tall, slender man with a long coat, who looked debonair and haughty. Martha drew herself up straighter in response, she opened her mouth to say something, only to be overrun.

“Mrs Hudson, I'm Sherlock Holmes. I'm here about your ghost problem.” The man smiled what Martha thought was the sweetest smile she had ever seen. And that had been the beginning of their friendship. 

Which is why now, Mrs Hudson had no problem being the one to kick Sherlock out of his days old funk. “Go take a shower darling, you stink like a days dead skunk on the side of the M5.” 

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, when he must have gotten a whiff of himself. He stood up haughtily, drawing his dressing gown around him like a king. With great dignity he stomped to the shower. 

Mrs Hudson continued to bustle around the flat, preparing tea and eyeing the stack of mail. She really hoped Sherlock would find something interesting in that pile. She couldn't handle another day of his moping. Plus he might read some of them out loud.


	3. Chapter 3

_Dear Mr Holmes,  
I am writing on behalf of my good friend, Dr John Watson. He resides in Wales, in a village known as the Mumbles. I sincerely think that you might be the only person who can help him with his problem. I can't tell you exactly when it started, as I am not sure John truly knows that, but it has been going on for years now. I do know that it has escalated a great deal, and John is worried for his young daughter..._

__Sherlock fingered the letter in his hands, as he sat outside a small cottage in his rented car. He had received Mike Stamford's letter and his curiosity had been piqued. He didn't call ahead or even get in touch to find out more. If he was being conned, it did not make sense to give the people attempting to pull the wool over his eyes any more time to prepare. And for those people who were experiencing a true paranormal encounter, he did not like to give them false hope. His arrival did not equate to a solution to their problem. In a rare case, it had made the problem worse._ _

__Those ghost adventure shows on various satellite channels made it seem rather easy. Have a ghost problem? Wave around a burning bit of dehydrated greenery and it'll all go away. Sherlock wasn't one to knock a bit of burning sage and a strongly worded warning to go the fuck away. However it was not the end all to every single paranormal encounter. Sometimes the solution was to call in a person of faith. As a scientist, Sherlock did not delve too deep into the religious aspect of it. He would not be the one to perform an exorcism, though he had sat in on one or two dozen. Mostly out of curiosity._ _

__Sherlock's lack of faith had raised questions. If one did not believe in heaven and hell, how did one come to terms with a demonic presence? Why did some religious ceremonies chase paranormal entities away? Sherlock had never come across the answer to that. But he had the science. He had proof of true, documented hauntings both demonic and mundane. And he had seen and felt the difference a faith healing could bring to both a property and a person. He had measured it, as any good scientist would. There are a few things that equipment can not capture however. The smell of roses, after months and years of rotting meat. The way light would slant just so. Like grimy windows had been wiped clean. Rarely did it matter what faith. Native American healing was just as effective as an archaic Catholicism. As long as the person believed._ _

__And for demons, well, there were humans out in the world that only wore a person suit when it benefited them. It made sense to Sherlock that there were paranormal entities that were pure evil as well. He loved a good demonic possession, they were always so interesting. Like Mrs Hudson's paranormal experience. Her husband had been a rather infamous in life. Henry Higgins Hudson had been a sadistic serial killer, who had held a grudge with the best of them. Even after his execution in the great state of Florida his anger with Martha Hudson had lingered. Enough for him to manifest in 221 Baker Street and torment the woman._ _

__Was Henry Higgins Hudson a demonic presence? In the traditional Catholic sense, probably not. In Sherlock's opinion he most definitely was. Violent and virulent. His presence had thrived on chaos and violence. It's enjoyment that was palpable in the air at Mrs Hudson's terror. The man had not been religious in life, and he had no moral compass to appeal to._ _

__In the end it had been Martha who had the answer all along. Mrs Hudson was not religious. In fact she had been a bit of a hippy in her youth, and that had remained as she aged. She had taken to burning sage and keeping items around the flat that she had known Henry hated. The smell of orange wood oil. A particular picture of her in her wild youth. They were only a few examples of her talismans against him. Henry hadn't vanished by any means, but now he remained in 221 C Baker street. The tiny basement flat that smelled of mildew and black mold. Sherlock had taken up residency in 221 B in part to remain vigilant. But mostly because he adored Martha Hudson, in his own way._ _

__Sherlock continued to study the small cottage in front of him. As he had pulled onto the lane leading up to the property he had passed a small powder blue mini cooper with a sandy haired man driving, alongside a tiny passenger. Sherlock assumed that this had been Dr John Watson and progeny. Since he had only gotten a second of a glance, he hadn't had a chance to make much of a character study of the man, other than he looked serious._ _

__This whimsical cottage would suit a fairy princess more than a doctor. It was made of the pale rough hewn stones that seemed to liter the country side. Both in the craggy ground, and in the other cottages and farms that dotted the landscape. A lot of windows, with cream lace curtains._ _

__Sherlock squinted against the morning light, staring intently at the window upstairs. It was not his imagination. The lace was moving. Not in the way of a vent or draft of air. It was too controlled. Like somebody was moving the bit of fabric out of the way to look into the lane. Sherlock leaned forward, trying to get a better look. He couldn't see a face or a body. And he was too well mannered to get out and be nosy, without consent. After all this was not a case of life or death. This was a ghost hunt. Sherlock would like to think that if this was a murder investigation then politeness and good manners would not keep him out. The lacy bit drifted back down, and even though Sherlock waited several minutes, he didn't see anything suspicious or even interesting happen._ _

__With a sigh, Sherlock started his rental back up. It was time to go and explore the village of the Mumbles and see what he could find out. He would come back after tea and introduce himself to Dr John Watson and see if he was welcome here or not. It was always a tricky thing when the person involved didn't write the correspondence inviting him to investigate._ _

__Well, regardless there was enough time to check in for his B &B reservation and do some exploring. The local library was the first place he would start. Librarians were a great source for gossip after all. They knew everything, about everybody. It was one of the great mysteries of life._ _


	4. Chapter 4

After Mary had gone back to London John had become a full time GP at the small practice he had previously been a locum at at. His co-workers had been incredibly understanding that he had suddenly become a single parent to an infant. Surprisingly there had not been a lot of questions asked about the situation. Which in John's experience was bloody fucking bizarre. In a township as small as the Mumbles, he had expected a lot of well meaning nosiness. Instead he had been met with rather a lot of knowing looks exchanged between the locals. John hadn't had the time to dwell on it for long. Rosie as an infant had been golden, but like all children change did not come easy. A routine disturbed was hell on the nerves, for all the parties involved.

It had taken time for John to find a caretaker for his girl. There had been days that he had to take her to the practice with him. She had thrived under the attention of both patients and the administrative assistants who had coo'd and baby talked her. John himself was not a baby talker. He preferred to talk to Rosie like she was a tiny adult, and he thought she appreciated it more as well.

Before he had found a caretaker for his daughter, he had received a divorce decree in the post. Mary had been back at her parent's house for less than a month when it had arrived, along with a letter addressed to Rosie. John had signed the decree and sent it back, certified mail. The letter he had placed in a wooden box he had set aside for that alone. Every couple of months a letter would arrive in the post, addressed to Rosie. Each one got placed in the box, unopened. They were for his daughter, and he wanted her to have the option of reading them when she was ready.

Very rarely Mary would send him a letter as well. It never said a lot, but almost always included money. John refused to spend it. Rather he diligently put the money in a savings account he had opened for Rosie. Those letters never mentioned that last night, or the previous months leading up to Mary's breakdown. John had forgiven Mary a long time ago, if that was even the word. He had hated the action that she had taken, but he couldn't hold her accountable for it.

It had taken John about three months to find a care taker for Rosie, and it had not been the one anyone had expected. There had been an lady on the outskirts of town who had a gaggle of children attached to her on an hourly basis. She had seemed like a nice enough lady, but John didn't like the situation. He had balked about Rosie being there. Then he had met Luther Bell at the local pub one night. His administrative assistant, Sara had taken Rosie for the night, and told John to scat. The woman was scary enough that he had obeyed without a word. Luther Bell had been nursing a solitary pint by himself, staring into nothingness. He had seemed as much of an outsider as John, and it had had nothing to do with his dark ebony skin. There had been a knowingness in his eyes that seemed to scare people away. 

John had found himself introducing himself to the tall, well built older man. He had found out that Luther had been a veteran of war, and having lost his sight in Afghanistan, was now at lose ends. They had sat in the corner of the pub and traded stories as only two veterans of war can. By the end of the night, Luther had seemed like an older brother to John. He too had few connections in the town. He was as lonely as John. The next day, John had invited Luther to Sunday dinner of roast and potatoes. Rosie had adored him on first sight.

It had been Luther himself who had broached the topic with John. Two months into their friendship, he had sat John and just spat it out. He would love to come to spend more time with Rosie, and he needed somebody to focus on. John had understood without needing it spelled out. He could remember sitting in his bedsit after he had gotten home. No focus, no drive. He had been a god damn zombie until he had met Mary. He wouldn't wish that on anybody.

So every morning before heading off to deal with colds, coughs and shingles, John dropped Rosie off at Luther's house. John was pretty sure, even then that there was something wrong with the cottage. Luther had offered to watch Rosie there, but after Mary's breakdown, John was leery of putting anybody in that situation again.

Maybe that should have been the first sign that there was something off about the cottage. How careful he had become with people being left in the house alone.

Now that Rosie was enrolled in school, Luther picked her up afterwards and entertained her at his house until John could escape the clinic. He tried to pick her up by 4 PM each and every day and for the most part he kept that promise. There were always exceptions. Emergencies happened after all, and he was a doctor. When John ran late, Luther took it in stride. He never made John feel like a horrid father for having to work to keep a roof over his kid's head. Sometimes the older man would have dinner waiting for him, and it was positively domestic. It really was too bad the man was strictly into women.

Not tonight though. Tonight John was looking forward to going home and just existing with Rosie. His girl would help him make dinner, they would work on her kindergarten homework. Once he had gotten her to sleep, John would binge listen to another one of Sherlock Holmes' episodes. He was totally caught up, having binged for a good week solid, but he found those dulcet tones soothing.

John put one of the Beatles' albums on the old turn table, and he and Rosie bopped around the kitchen as they worked on supper. They were making one of Rosie's favorite meals, meat pasties. With a five year old fluting the edges of the pre-made pastry, they were not the prettiest of dinners, but they were damn tasty if John said so. John could hear giggles echoing around the dining room, that were not coming from his daughter. At this moment Rosie's tongue was peeking out from the corner of her lip, as she studiously worked on her pastry skills.

John wasn't sure if she was aware of what was happening around the cottage. Rosie was not scared or nervous acting in the house. Unlike John himself. She never crawled into bed with him at night, unless she was sick. He could remember crawling into his parent's bed in the middle of night for a plethora of reasons. Monsters under the bed, stairs creaking ominously or just wanting cuddles. John bent over and kissed Rosie's head affectionately. She leaned into him for a side snuggle, without removing her hands or concentration from the pastry.

The small tinkling doorbell rang, and the eerie giggling from the dining room stopped suddenly. John grabbed a dishtowel for his hands, wondering if Luther had changed his mind about dinner. He meandered his way to the door, in no real rush. The wavy glass inlaid into the front door distorted the shadow of the visitor. The doorknob was cold under his fingers, as he tried to twist it open. The door refused to open. It wasn't jammed. The wood was not swollen with moisture. It was the middle of winter, and the air was dry as a brittle bone. John put his weight behind his attempt, his leg aching as he tried to bully the damn door open. The knob was so cold his hand was cramping up.

“For fuck's sake,” John muttered as he shook his hand out. He grabbed the knob again and yanked it forcefully, almost falling down as it opened easily under his hand.

Only to be confronted with one of the most aggressively beautiful men he had ever seen. Cheekbones sharp enough to cut, steely eyes that seemed to see and dissect everything. John froze in confusion, feeling a little like a deer caught in the glare of high beams. Then the man smiled and his face transformed into something poetically angelic.

“Hello Dr Watson, I am Sherlock Holmes. I am here about your ghost problem.”

John was so screwed.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock's day had been spent productively as he waited for a chance to introduce himself to Dr John Watson. He had dropped his overnight bag off at the B&B, succeeded in not vomiting at the nauseating floral wallpaper before getting the hell out of there. Hopefully he would not need to spend too much time there. The library had been in walking distance, and he had enjoyed the bracing breeze whipping his long coat around his legs. Sherlock could feel people's eyes on him as he walked briskly, his phone in hand. He ignored them.

The library was the best sort. It was an unpretentious building, with a wickedly fast internet connection. Of course, Sherlock did not get to spend too much time on the computers. He had loaded up first on local history books, and then migrated to the microfiche collection. Drugs seemed to be the biggest crime for the most part in the Mumbles. Which didn't surprise Sherlock terribly. Small village that was growing more cosmopolitan each generation, not far from Cardiff, it was not a stretch. What interested Sherlock was a spat of children disappearances more forty years ago that was centered in Mumbles.

Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to picture Mumbles in 1978. Smaller, much more isolated. In 1978 an hour and a half from Cardiff, it would have been the sticks. They would not have been able to blame the crimes on the encroaching city, or the growing tourism industry. Tourism had been in decline in 1978. The train to Mumbles had closed years before. If they were crimes. Thirteen children went missing over the span of fifteen months. No bodies were ever found. No real evidence of a crime ever discovered. To the cops it looked like thirteen children decided to wake up in the middle of the night, pack a rucksack and leave. Never to be seen again. Their ages were consistent, though their gender was not. Five boys and eight girls between the ages of eleven and thirteen just gone.

One person had seen Joey Simpson, the youngest girl, on the night she disappeared. She had been dressed in a light blue dress, walking in sheets of rain in late August. When the driver had pulled over to offer her a ride home, she had run away like the very devil was after her. That driver, who the article did not mention the name of, had driven straight home to call the police.

That early call didn't matter, they never found any trace of Joey Simpson. Or the twelve other children that followed her into that void.

None of the children had gone missing from the cottage John Watson had purchased five years ago. However, when Sherlock put it on a map, that cottage was at the center of the missing children. It was interesting. The cottage itself had been rented and owned by a fair amount of people since the mid 1980s. In Sherlock's opinion far more than was average for the size, cost and location. Few people stayed more than a year. John Watson and his family had stayed the longest at five years.

It was time to go back to the cottage and meet the man himself and see if this cottage was experiencing true paranormal activity. Or if it was all the overactive imagination of a lonely man.

Sherlock did not get nervous about meeting prospective clients. In fact, the only thing he ever got nervous about was boredom. The very idea of ennui was enough to send him into a tailspin of agitation. And Sherlock knew he would not be bored with this case, if the simple action of ringing a doorbell could cause such phenomenon. While he did not have any equipment on his person, he could feel the temperature drop. He could see how the man behind the door was struggling to get it to open. He did not bounce on his toes in excitement.

Sherlock winced as the door flew open with a gusty whoosh. Dr Watson was obviously not prepared for the ease in which it swung open, and almost fell on his rather perky behind. Sherlock could not help the truly genuine smile that emerged at the gobsmacked look on Dr Watson's face. This was going to be so much fun.


	6. Chapter 6

“Hello Dr Watson, I am Sherlock Holmes. I am here about your ghost problem.”

“Please come in, and call me John,” he murmured as he reached out to shake the man's hand on autopilot. “Sherlock Holmes of the Science of Deduction?”

John was beyond gobsmacked. If this was the man behind the voice of his favorite podcast, the witty, sarcastically brilliant man who told the best stories. Well he was beyond fucked. He glanced down when he felt Rosie attach herself to his leg. This was still a thing she did, when she was feeling shy, which seemed to be around anybody who was not himself or Luther.

“Aw, yes. That's me.” Sherlock graced him with that smile again. Damn that was a lethal weapon. “Who is this young lady?”

Rosie's chin wobbled for a moment before she stood a tiny bit straighter. “Rosamund Watson, I'm five. Who are you?”

“My name is Sherlock,” the man knelt in front of John's daughter, looking her in the eye. He didn't baby talk at her, which John appreciated greatly.

“You are the man who tells the stories Daddy listens to after I go to bed,” Rosie informed him softly, her arms still wrapped around John's thigh. “Are you here to tell Daddy stories?”

Sherlock glanced at Dr Watson-John, briefly. “That really depends on your Daddy, but I am interested in learning about the stories that happened here.”

“Here-here or here-in-town?” Rosie asked her thumb heading for the corner of her mouth. John hadn't seen her suck her thumb in months.

“Is there a difference in the stories?” Sherlock asked, still kneeling.

“Oh yes,” Rosie nodded vigorously. “Joey tells me stories that I never hear about in school or in town.” 

Sherlock sat down cross-legged in front of Rosie, making the little girl giggle. She detached from John's leg and mimicked the other man. “Will you tell me a story?” Sherlock asked the little girl.

“What sorta story?” Rosie tilted her head, her golden hair reflecting the multicolored lights strung on the fresh pine Christmas tree placed in front of the windows.

“Tell me one of the stories that Joey told you,” Sherlock leaned forward.

“Story time deserves something more festive than sitting in the entry hall,” John commented dryly. “Hot chocolate and a fire sounds good.” Rosie cheered in agreement. “Rosie love go and get Dodger from the garden for me please.”

Rosie scrambled up, eager to go and chase down her blue Boston Terrier puppy. He had been an early Christmas gift and Rosie was deep in puppy love.

Once Rosie was out of earshot, John turned to look at Sherlock. “Mr Holmes, obviously you have heard about the problems I've been having with the cottage.”

“Obviously,” Sherlock agreed. “And call me Sherlock since we are being informal.” He followed the man into the kitchen, for once not feeling out of place in somebody else's home. “I received a letter from Mike Stamford, detailing some of the issues you've been experiencing.”

John snorted, as he turned to get the supplies to make hot chocolate for Rosie and tea for them. “What stories do you think my five year old can tell you?”

“Your daughter's friend shares the same name of a little girl who went missing over forty years ago,” Sherlock stated. “Why don't you tell me.”

John stopped fussing with the kettle. “I'm sorry what? Are you telling me that my daughter's imaginary friend is the ghost of a dead little girl?”

“It's very likely,” Sherlock leaned against the counter, slouching comfortably. “Children are well in tune with the spiritual realm. Blah blah blah. Personally, I think it's because imagination has not been drilled out of them yet.” 

John laughed shortly, more out of shock that anything. All this time he had thought Rosie was not being affected by the weird shit that was happening in the cottage. It turns out she was in the middle of it all. Hell, she probably knew more about what was going on than he did.

“I wouldn't stress too much, Rosie is obviously very comfortable with what is happening in the house.” Sherlock grabbed the sugar bowl when it became obvious John was searching for it. “I know it's scary for you, but for her it's normal.”

John looked out the window, at his young daughter chasing a tiny pup around the fenced in garden. Snow was starting to fall gently. Sherlock's words made sense. Rosie was healthy and happy. He was not fucking this up. “Thanks, I know you aren't here to council me on raising a kid as a single dad.”

“It's all part of the package when I investigate a haunting, and I won't lie,” Sherlock smiled. “You have a hell of haunting happening here.”

John shook his head, amused “a bit not good.”

Sherlock's dark curls bounced as he tilted his head in inquiry.

“You shouldn't seem so excited and happy to be in a haunted house,” John laughed.

“Well I won't lie, your reactions to me are quite a bit different than most of my other clients.” Sherlock smiled at John. “Most of them tell me to piss off.”

John was still laughing when Rosie skidded back into the kitchen, Dodger right behind her. “Daddy can Dodger have a meat pasty too?”

Oh buggering bunches of bat shit. John had forgot to put the pasties in the oven. “Nope, Dodger can have some kibble and a bone though.” John grinned at his daughter. “Let's not make the little guy sick his first week here.” John turned to Sherlock, “you'll stay for dinner I hope. It's nothing fancy, just some meat pasties.”

Sherlock's stormy eyes gleamed in excitement. “Thank you, I will. I've never actually had a meat pasty.”

Rosie and John both looked at the man in shock. That was inconceivable to them. “Well, you are in for a treat then,” John smiled at Sherlock. “Rosie made them, so they will be delicious.”

“Daddy helped. A tiny bit,” Rosie added. “Can I have a peppermint stick off the tree while we wait for them to cook?” She asked her dad.

John knew a con when he heard one, but Rosie just looked sweet and innocent. “Yeah alright, but only one.”

Rosie cheered and went tearing off through the house, Dodger at her heels.

“You are a soft touch,” Sherlock grinned at the good doctor. “How many boxes of peppermint sticks have you had to buy already this year?

John blushed. “Oh shut up and go get one too. It's story time.” He followed the man out of the kitchen and into the festively decorated living room. It seemed his daughter was going to tell them a possibly true holiday horror story.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock sat in a wing back chair as he watched John Watson bustle around, lighting the fireplace and doling out tea and hot chocolate. This man was nothing like Sherlock had dealt with before in his cases. There was giggling coming from the dining room. Sherlock could see John notice it, acknowledge it and then move on. There were no hysterics, just gentle acceptance. Sherlock had left a small recording device in that room, wondering if he would capture anything of interest. The giggling of ghost children was creepy, but in the long run it was not informative. 

Sherlock pulled out a recorder and glanced at John for permission. John nodded and sat down with Rosie on the sofa, Dodger sacked out on the little girl's lap. The decorated tree was festive and colorful and totally out of place in this situation. 

“So tell me about Joey and her stories,” Sherlock began carefully, not wanting to spook Rosie. 

“She's been here forever,” Rosie began, petting Dodger's ears. “I don't remember a time when she wasn't.” She glanced up at John. “She's nice, not like some of the other children who come and go.” 

John nodded silently in encouragement, petting her hair much like Rosie was petting Dodger's ears. Self comfort for the win. 

“How old is Joey?” Sherlock asked quietly. 

“She says she's eleven, but I am almost as tall as her!” Rosie informed the men proudly. “So it's not weird she's older than me.” 

Sherlock glanced in confusion at John, who mouthed: 'I'll explain later.' He let it go, not understanding the issue with having an older friend, but he didn't have friends growing up, so what would he know about it. 

Rosie was staring at the tree, almost hypnotized. “She always wears the same blue dress. She must be cold in the winter, but she says she doesn't mind.” 

All of three of them sat in silence for a moment, letting that settle. The giggling that had been in the dining room had moved closer to the living room doorway. Sherlock could hear a what sounded like three children making a ruckus. A glass shattered in the kitchen, and the giggling stopped abruptly. 

Rosie glanced away from the tree and at Sherlock. “It wasn't Krampus that took her though.” 

“I'm sorry what?” Sherlock asked, confused. 

“Krampus is a story,” John started to explain. “He's the opposite of Santa Claus, he kidnaps kids who misbehave.” He was a little startled that Rosie knew who Krampus was. He didn't think teachers still talked about him. And he certainly wasn't the type of parent to try to scare his kid into good behavior. Though, if he had remembered the stories of Krampus, he might have. 

Rosie nodded in agreement, “they blamed Krampus for all them though. Even the ones who got taken in the summer.” 

“Who are you taking about?” John asked cautiously.

“The kids who went missing daddy,” Rosie looked at her dad like he was silly. “You remember, stranger danger and not talking to strangers.” 

“How many kids went missing?” John looked horrified.

“Thirteen,” Sherlock answered. “In 1978, they all disappeared without a trace.” 

“That's impossible,” John stood up abruptly, going to the window to look outside. There was a full on blizzard happening. He didn't recall that being in the forecast. 

“Improbable most definitely, but that's what the books say happened.” Sherlock glanced at Rosie. “They didn't say anything about Krampus.”

John snorted. “Well yeah, I mean local stories about a half demon half goat taking misbehaving children away, being published in the papers is outrageous. Even for Wales.” 

“It wasn't Krampus though,” Rosie piped up. She took a sip of her hot chocolate. “It was the witch with the gingerbread house.” 

The timer that John had set for the meat pasties started blaring like a foghorn at that moment. Scaring the bejeesus out of both Sherlock and John. “Dinner time!” Rosie sang out, rousing Dodger from his sleep. The two of them shot off the sofa, heading with determination to the kitchen. 

Sherlock and John followed at a more sedate pace. Both men lost in their own thoughts. 

“Daddy there's a glass broken on the floor,” Rosie was at the door, a squirming Dodger in her skinny arms. John abruptly remembered the sound of glass breaking and giggling abruptly cut off. He cursed lightly under his breath before brushing past Sherlock. 

“Okay love, give me a minute to clean it up.” John grabbed the dust bin and broom. “Keep Dodger out of here, so he doesn't cut his paws up.” 

Sherlock leaned against the doorjamb and watched Rosie twirl around the dining room, Dodger in her arms, as she hummed a Christmas song tunelessly. He could hear a faint clapping sound, that almost seemed to be cheering the little girl on. 

John cleared his throat from beside him. “Meat pasties for your tasting pleasure,” he called out mock formal to his daughter. Rosie yelled in delight, inspiring Dodger to howl a little stuttering bark, that was ridiculously adorable.

They all sat down at a long table, that was well weathered. “Sorry,” John muttered, looking slightly embarrassed. “We do everything at this table. We eat here, do arts and crafts. First aid. This table sees it all.” 

“Don't apologize,” Sherlock smiled. “I think that's fantastic.” Sherlock looked at the woebegone, slightly wonky shaped pastry on his plate. It looked like a five year old made it. Honestly it looked better than anything Sherlock could make. With the slightest bit of trepidation, he cut into the crisp pastry, inhaling the savory aroma of spicy meat, potato and gravy. He had been missing out all this time. 

Rosie and John were staring at him in anticipation as he took his first bite.

“Oh my god,” Sherlock mumbled around his first mouthful. “This is the most amazing thing that's ever been in my mouth.” 

John blushed. 

Sherlock blinked. Oh. 

John looked down at his plate, his cheeks still pink as he cut into his pasty. Rosie was humming again, as she sawed into hers with determination. 

“Mr Sherlock,” Rosie took a deep gulp of her milk, “how old are you?” 

Sherlock was not prepared for an interrogation, so he had to put down his fork and knife. “I'm thirty-eight.” 

“Do you have any kids or puppies?” Rosie continued blithely, as she took another bite. 

“Nothing quite that interesting,” Sherlock answered. “I do have a landlady and a podcast producer. Lestrade is sort of like a puppy I guess. He is barely house trained though.” 

John snorted into his water, his eyes watering from trying not to laugh. His daughter was coming out of her shell fast around Sherlock Holmes. 

“Are you married?” Rosie put a piece of pastry in her mouth and smiled. 

“Nope,” Sherlock popped the p. “That's really not my area of expertise.” 

“That's okay, Daddy's not married either. You can marry him and then you'll have both kids and puppies.” Rosie announced. “I think your nice, and daddy likes your stories.” 

John choked, and Sherlock went very still. 

“I'm afraid that's not how marriage works love,” John began softly, embarrassed that his five year old was trying to wingman for him. 

“I like him. He likes us, and Joey thinks he's pretty.” Rosie stated, matter of fact. “You should marry him.” 

John cleared his throat, and refused to look at Sherlock. He glanced out the darkening window. “Where are you staying while you are in Wales?” he asked. 

“At one of the local b&b. It has a lot of flowers in the décor.” Sherlock answered, willing to change the subject as well. 

“It looks like you might be staying in one of the guest rooms here tonight, unless you want to walk to the b&b,” John gestured to the sheets of falling snow. “I wouldn't recommend it though, it's a long walk.” 

Sherlock glanced at the snow too. He did not relish the idea of trudging along in it. “Thank you, I appreciate the hospitality, and this delicious dinner.” 

“Of course, it's the least we can do.” John smiled. “You came to help after all.” 

Sherlock's smile dimmed a bit. He wasn't always able to help, and he wasn't sure if that was news he wanted to give this small family of three. Staying the night would give him a chance to experience more of the phenomenon first hand however.


	8. Chapter 8

John had put Sherlock in the cottage's green room. It was the only guest room the cottage had, so he wasn't sure why they differentiated between it and the other rooms. But they always had. Or so John had explained as he shown Sherlock where it was. He had no bags to put away, so he had not lingered long. Only long enough to note that there were no flowers on the walls or anywhere else, which Sherlock deeply appreciated. After dinner, Rosie and Dodger had helped John with the clean up of dishes. Sherlock had tried to help, but had simply gotten underfoot. Which Rosie had seemed to find hilarious. 

They had not continued the story Rosie had started earlier. By some unspoken agreement, that had seemed much too familiar after only knowing each other for a few scant hours, Sherlock and John had changed the subject to rapidly approaching holiday. Christmas was only days away. Rosie had not paid them a lot of mind, playing with Dodger quietly until when Sherlock glanced over, both child and puppy were sacked out asleep under the Christmas tree. It was the cutest puppy pile Sherlock had ever seen, if he was being honest. 

John had followed his gaze, and laughed softly. “I had better get them to bed.” He stood, and leaned backwards-groaning softly when his back popped. “She's getting too big for me to do this for much longer,” he whispered to Sherlock. “So I try to do it as much as I can now.” 

Sherlock felt positively domestic as he watched John pick up his daughter, and glance at the puppy, still passed out under the tree. He got up from his chair and scooped Dodger up. “Lead the way,” Sherlock whispered. “Before they wake up.” 

Sherlock had never helped put a child to bed, so it was weird and sweet. As a single man with little to no interest in children, it was odd to find that he genuinely liked Rosie. She was much more interesting than many of the adults Sherlock dealt with on a daily basis. He had looked around her room, as John got her into bed. She had books and a few dolls, and an amazing amount of art on her walls. Colorful crayon and stick figures that represented John and Rosie, and often a third person that Sherlock assumed was Joey. It was a blue squiggle, small and at times almost invisible. Newer pictures had a bluish gray dog added that must represent Dodger. 

Sherlock and John headed back downstairs. The living room was awash in holiday lights and the crackling of the fire. He refused to consider how romantic the situation was. This was not a date. Hell, he had only arrived here hours ago, and John was a client. It was an odd situation to be sure. Sherlock had never ate dinner with clients before, or spent the night due to weather. And nobody's child had ever proposed marriage. But this was fine. Perfect even. John sat back down on the sofa, after offering Sherlock more tea. He eyed the lovely wingback chair he had been sitting in all evening, before opting for the sofa. Sitting next to John. 

John smiled, his face lit by the fire and holiday lights. “How did you get into paranormal research?” He asked as he sipped from his tea mug. 

“Oh the usual bit.” Sherlock smiled at him, charmed by this man. “I grew up in a house by the sea, with rather absent parents and a older brother who loved to boss me around. I was convinced the house was haunted by the ghost of a pirate named Red-beard.” 

“Was it?” John asked, looking intrigued. 

“According to my parents and know-it- all brother, no.” Sherlock laughed sardonically. “It was all house settling and wind.” Sherlock took a sip of his tea. “I of course knew better. People see, but rarely do they observe.” 

“What did you do?” John was intrigued, and more than a bit charmed by the picture of a tiny Sherlock ghost hunting. 

“I got proof,” Sherlock grinned. “I got audio of Red-beard talking and thermal reads of extreme temperature drops and spikes.” 

“So did they believe you then?” John turned to face Sherlock properly, his bare feet propped up on the sofa between them. 

“No,” Sherlock's grin faded a bit. “But that is the curse of being a skeptic. Not even solid scientific proof can change your mind. 

John nodded. “I never really believed in the supernatural. I mean you don't go through war without ghosts and miracles and all that.” John put his cup down. “But that's a different sort of belief I think.” 

Sherlock nodded. “For some, paranormal activity is a leap of faith. I prefer using science to back it up.” 

John laughed. “That's why your podcast is amazing.” 

Sherlock blushed. For the first time in years. “You realize you said that out loud?” 

“Of course,” John grinned. “If people aren't telling you that you are amazing every day, then they suck.” 

“Most people tell me I am a git or an asshole,” Sherlock admitted with a shrug. “One gets used to it.” 

“Maybe you need to surround yourself with better people,” John muttered, angry on Sherlock's behalf. 

“Oh no, I really am an asshole.” Sherlock laughed. “And I have a few people who matter. Mrs Hudson and Lestrade mostly.” 

“Good,” John mumbled, as he tucked his cold toes under Sherlock's thigh. God it had been a long day, and he was exhausted. 

Sherlock remained silent as he watched John fall asleep sitting up. His feet tucked under Sherlock's thigh, like a child seeking warmth. This man was adorable. He grabbed the red and black tartan blanket that was on the back of the sofa, and tucked it around the sleeping man. It took more effort to walk away than he would like to admit.


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock sat in his room at a tiny desk with the recorder he had placed in the dining room earlier in the day. He could hear the children laughing and giggling. Multiple children. It sounded like two girls and a boy, but without his laptop to help muffle back ground noise it was hard to say for sure. And there on the digital recording was the most terrifying voice he had ever heard. “SHUT UP,” it roared. “FUCKING BRATS,” it was garbled and distorted but easy enough to decipher. Then the sound of breaking glass and the giggles disappeared. 

Sherlock listened to it again. Possibly female? Definitely angry. He played it again. And again. There was the proof that this cottage was under paranormal threat, but other than breaking glasses and misplaced items, were John and Rosie in danger?

The force of the rage suggested that yes, they really were. Sherlock did not know why or how, but that anger was building. 

He knew the bare bones of a story, missing children. But what happened to them and why this cottage? Sherlock was going to have to talk to somebody who knew Mumbles in the 1978 and who would be willing to talk to him. Which was going to be harder than one could imagine. People did not always like to talk about dark days, especially in once rural villages that were becoming a hub of tourism. 

Maybe John would know somebody willing to talk to him. Sherlock really wanted to go back downstairs and sleep on the sofa with John. This cottage had suddenly become more sinister in the past few minutes. Sleeping alone in this room was terrifying. He knew he was a prideful man, but not that proud. He grabbed his pillow and a throw blanket, heading back to John and the safety of the Christmas tree. 

It turned out that John in fact did know somebody who would talk to him. John didn't have to go into the surgery today, since it was Christmas Eve and Rosie did not have school, they sat around the dining room table with tea and scones. Rosie was outside with Dodger, building a snowman. John kept one eye on her, as he introduced Sherlock to Luther. 

The blind veteran sat at the table, his scarred fingers tapping the edges as he sipped his tea. “What you want to know about?” Luther asked. 

“In 1978 there was quite a few disappearances,” Sherlock began. 

“Oh yeah, dark days.” Luther nodded. “I was about fifteen at the time those kids started going missing. I haven't thought about that in years.” 

John tightened his fingers around his cup and looked out on Rosie again. “Sherlock thinks it might have something to do with the weird things happening in the cottage.” 

“Well that makes sense,” Luther nodded to himself. “The adults never wanted to admit something was going on. Blaming it on the most ridiculous fucking stories. Krampus, for fuck's sake.” 

“So that was actually a theory?” Sherlock barked a laugh. “I thought Rosie was joking.”

“Oh no, they actually blamed it on Krampus. At least the adults did.” Luther took a deep drink of tea. “The kids had other theories.” 

John and Sherlock leaned forward, and with the natural grace of story teller, Luther started talking. 

There was a teacher at the local grammar school. Young, pretty, the adults adored her. She was a local girl made good. She had grown up in the sticks outside of the Mumbles, from one of the families that made Appalachian folk seem sociable. She had gone to Cardiff for schooling and came back the Mumbles to pass that knowledge on to young minds. 

The only problem was, that teacher really did not like children all that much. They were noisy and dirty. They rarely listened and they would not sit still. She would beat the seat out of kid's pants with a stitch if they sassed her. The kids were terrified of her. 

John really wanted to interrupt, but Sherlock put a hand over his mouth. 

Luther sat staring blankly at the window. He took a moment to collect himself. 

I knew all those kids that went missing. Mumbles was small, it had been a hub of tourism back in the heyday, and it was in the middle of that decline you know. It was like the village was dying. But not that teacher. 

That teacher lived in this cottage. And she was thriving under it all. With each missing kid, she became prettier. Her cheeks more rosy and her figure more plump and curvy. 

We just knew she was eating those kids. Like the gingerbread house witch from the stories. 

Sherlock removed his hand from John's mouth, and let the man speak. “What happened to her?” 

“Died in 1979,” Luther murmured. “Right here in the house, they found her with her head in the oven. Police deemed it a suicide.” 

John and Sherlock looked at Luther, wanting to ask the question, but not really wanting the answer. 

“Now I don't know what happened, but I can tell you, that woman was not the type to kill herself. Too fucking mean.” Luther took a sip of tea. 

Rosie came running into the dining room, her face red with cold and her eyes bright with excitement. “Daddy daddy! Dodger is going crazy. I think he found something!” 

John followed Rosie outside, to where Dodger was digging frantically at a hard patch of dirt. It was under a tall, scraggly tree, and not covered in the fluffy snow that had fallen the night before. The little terrier was barely making a dent in the dirt, but he was not deterred. 

“Do you have a shovel,” Sherlock asked quietly. 

“Yeah, give me a second,” John answered as he grabbed Dodger and cuddled him against his chest. “Should I take Rosie inside?” 

“Might not be a bad idea,” Sherlock murmured. “If this what I fear, I don't think you want her to see.” 

John put his arm around Rosie's shoulders and steered her away from the tree. He left her and Dodger with Luther and headed back outside with the shovel. It did took them ages. The ground was hard and frozen, but with two determined men they made the effort. They built a fire pit close to the ground, and between digging sessions warmed the earth with coals. 

The bones were not buried deep. Scattered like a carrion pit of death and decay, here were the missing children of the Mumbles. 

John was on the phone to the police, while Sherlock sat vigil with bones. Luther sat with Rosie and Dodger. Rosie was crying softly into Luther's cable knit sweater, her fingers twined into the fabric. 

“What's wrong little dove?” Luther asked softly, as he petted her hair. 

“Joey's gone. I haven't seen her all day.” Rosie cried pitifully. 

“Maybe it was time for her to move on,” Luther murmured. “She's been here a long long time.” 

“But she's my friend,” Rosie sobbed softly. “I don't want her to go.” 

“I know, but you gave her an amazing gift,” Luther soothed the little girl the best he could, but there was no consoling her. She cried like her heart was broken. 

After John got off the phone, he sat outside shoulder to shoulder with Sherlock. They stared into the pit of hell itself. 

“I don't think I can stay here any longer,” John confessed. 

“The haunting is probably over,” Sherlock nodded to the ground. “Once these poor kids are given a proper burial.” 

“Yeah, not that point,” John sighed. “I live in the house of a fucking serial killer school teacher” 

“If it makes you feel any better, I rent my flat from a landlady who is haunted by her serial killer ex husband,” Sherlock smiled grimly. “I do have two spare rooms however.” 

“Don't offer if you are not serious Sherlock,” John warned. “Rosie already gave her blessing for our wedded bliss.” 

Sherlock gave John his sweet smile. “I'm game if you are.” 

John leaned forward and kissed Sherlock. His lips a dry brush, as he tilted his head for a better angle. Sherlock tangled his fingers in John's military neat hair, and pulled gently as he nipped at the man's lush bottom lip. 

They separated slowly, John resting his forehead against Sherlock's cheek. “Stay for Christmas, and we'll talk about moving to London.” John murmured. “As roommates, to start.” 

“Whatever you say John,” Sherlock smiled into the man's hair.


	10. Epilogue

One year later, John and Rosie were living at 221 B Baker with Sherlock and Dodger. One of the spare bedrooms was just that, a spare bedroom filled with boxes and detritus. Sherlock had had his way, and John had not argued. Much. Luther visited often, and had become fast friends with Lestrade, much to Sherlock's chagrin. 

John did not go back into locum work at the local surgery. Instead he became an integral part of Sherlock's podcast. They told stories and investigated as a team. John had a knack of knowing from the get go what hauntings were legit and which were cons. 

Rosie still missed Joey, who she had not seen since Christmas eve the year prior. She was however, making friends at the primary school she was attending in London. 

Mrs Hudson still had the angry spirit of her ex husband trapped in the basement apartment of 221 Baker St. She was perfectly content with that arrangement, thank you very much. 

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays all! Thank you all for reading and taking the time to leave comments and kudos, they are all appreciated. I hope you enjoyed!


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